


factions disparate, then tucked together

by sevendeadlyfun



Category: Sense8 (TV), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4184727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevendeadlyfun/pseuds/sevendeadlyfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“You won’t need that, “ the older man replies, raising a hand. “I’m not with BPO or Trask Industries. My name is Charles Xavier.”</i> A mutation is a mutation, no matter what the name others give it or how it manifests. A Sense8/X-Men crossover.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. about the two prisoners, alone

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally supposed to be a small part of a 5 ways fic and it ended up bigger than I meant it to be. Oops. Title taken from the poem [Points of Contact](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/250558) by Kyle Dargan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from the poem [A Language](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/242268) by Susan Stewart

“Hello, Will.” The voice, soft and recognizably British, startles him. Even now, visitations from outside his cluster seem – weird. Different, in a way he can’t yet define.

 He turns and sees an older man sitting in a wheelchair.

“Who are you?” he asks, reaching for the needle he always keeps close by.

 “Who is he?” Nomi echoes and Will shakes his head.

 “You won’t need that, “ the older man replies, raising a hand. “I’m not with BPO or Trask Industries. My name is Charles Xavier.”

 “Are you –“ Will stops, looking around for Riley. He can hear the shower and Nomi vanishes. The shower stops. “Are you sensate?”

 “In a way,” Xavier says. “What you call sensate is, to me, telepathy. I am able to communicate like this with anyone. We are both mutants.”

 “Mutants?” Nomi says, reaching out to hold Will’s hand. “I read about this. Crazy deep web shit. People who can control the weather or fly or shoot lasers from their eyes.”

 “You believe this?” Wulfgang snorts.

 Will stares at the man. “How did you find me?”

 The man smiles at him. “I have a machine, Cerebro. It allows my to extend the range of my telepathy to track fellow mutants.”

 “So why come looking for us?” Riley creeps out of the shadows on soft feet to stand at Will’s side.

 “I’ve received rather…disturbing information from an old friend about experiments being performed on mutants with telepathic powers. This doctor – he’s also a mutant, correct? He communicates with you, just as I’m doing?”

 “Yes,” Will says. “The only way I can stop him is with the drugs. He seems to be able to find me, to find us, wherever we are.”

 “Can you show me what he looks like?” The older man raises a finger to his temple. “Picture him.”

 Will shakes his head and leans lightly into Riley’s outstretched arms. “No. No. If I do, he’ll sense me, he’ll know. He’ll find us. NO.”

“He can’t,” the older man reassures him. “I’ve shielded our communication. I promise you, he will not sense you while I’m here.”

 “Don’t trust him,” Sun whispers. “Jonas promised to help and look what happened. We can only trust ourselves.”

 “We have to trust someone.” Kala’s voice is strong, sharp. “Right now, nowhere is safe and if Will keeps taking these drugs –.” She stops and he feels what she didn’t say.

 He’ll die.

 It doesn’t take much to conjure an image of Whispers. The man taunts him almost daily, pushing into his mind, trying to reach the others. Will thinks he’ll see this face behind his eyes until the day he dies.

 “Yes,” Xavier says. “I know him. His name is Larry Trask. He’s part of a violent anti-mutant movement.”

 “So why does he want our brains?” Nomi asks. “To study our mutation?”

 “In a way,” he responds and Will notices, with a start, that he appears to see and hear Nomi. “He is working to complete a project his father started – the Sentinels.”

 He says that name as if he expects her to know it, but she only shakes her head. “Sentinels?”

 “Wait,” Will interrupts before the man can speak. “You can see Nomi? You can hear her?

When Jonas and Elsa connected with one us, it was ONLY with one of us. You can –“

“Yes,” the man answers. “I can see and hear Nomi and Wulfgang and Kala and Sun. As I said, my telepathy is not limited to any number of individuals. These others, Jonas, was it, and Elsa, likely have the same limits on their telepathy as you do.”

 “I’m all for scientific research,” Nomi says, “but maybe we could explore that bit later?”

 She stares at Xavier. “Sentinels?”

“Machines,” Xavier tells her, “ capable of detecting genetic mutations and designed to destroy mutants. My old friend tells me the research he reviewed seemed to indicate Trask was looking to enhance the detection capabilities of his Sentinels. I imagine discovering the secret to your specific mutation would enhance their capabilities greatly. Your ability to link with one another, to inhabit one another’s physical forms, is remarkable.”

“Great,” Wulfgang says. “We are fodder for a mad scientist trying to build death robots.”

“Yes,” Xavier agrees. “Trask receives a great deal of official cooperation in America and elsewhere. His work is primarily supported as national defense research, which is how he’s able to command so many different levels of civilian and military resources across multiple countries.”

“So, we’re fucked,” Wulfgang replies.

“Not necessarily,” Xavier says with a smile. “I have a school, in upstate New York, a haven for those like us, with our extraordinary abilities. I’d like to invite you – all of you – to join me. You’ll be safe here and we can learn more about your mutation, if you like.”

He doesn’t need to talk to the rest of his cluster. He can feel it, a surge from inside all their hearts and minds. The feeling is so overwhelming he staggers.

As he rights himself, he looks up at Xavier, sitting straight in his wheelchair, face open and eyes bright. “Yeah, I’d – _we’d_ – like that a lot.”


	2. but the two worlds overlapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Erik fucking Lensherr,” she says and it is Wolfgang speaking, Wolfgang’s memories whirling in her mind._ A mutation is a mutation, no matter what the name others give it or how it manifests. A Sense8/X-Men crossover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the people who left kudos and comments encouraging me to continue this. I really appreciate all the positive feedback and I look forward to writing more in this crossover. I welcome all feedback and suggestions!
> 
> A word of caution - Marvel plays fast and loose with its timelines and universes so I see no reason for me not to do the same. I will happily bring characters from other timelines or universes as it suits the plot so just consider this a pan-Marvel playground. Title of this chapter taken from the poem [Stripped Car](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/181522) by Chase Twitchell.

The plane shimmers above them, the edges sharpening, as its camouflage seems to melt away. Nomi stares at the plane’s curves, eyes searching for answers to the puzzle of a plane appearing from nowhere. She doesn’t see any visible mechanism which would produce the effect but that doesn’t mean there isn’t one, cleverly hidden.

“You’re thinking about how you can hack this plane,” Amanita says, voice heavy with suppressed laughter. “I thought these folks were here to help.”

“Always better to be prepared,” Nomi tells her, reaching down to squeeze her hand.

The hatch of the plane opens, sending out a strong burst of wind. The man walking down the gangway is tall, broad-shouldered, with an angular face that Nomi recognizes without knowing why. The feeling of cluster memories is something like déjà vu and something like having a word caught on the tip of your tongue, she explained to Amanita late one night – you know something but you don’t know how. This man is someone else’s memory.

“Erik fucking Lensherr,” she says and it is Wolfgang speaking, Wolfgang’s memories whirling in her mind.

“And that is?” Amanita asks, mouth twisted slightly in concern.

“A famous…Nazi hunter?” The words come but haltingly. Wolfgang is not her but beside her, both of them staring at the man who is now floating slightly off the ground in front of them.

“Among other things,” he acknowledges, nodding his head once. “Including a fellow mutant. Charles has told me a fascinating story about your mutant abilities. Shall we?”

He waves a hand at the plane behind him. “Not that I wouldn’t mind a decent fight, but I have promised Charles to be on my best behavior and I’d hate to make him cross.”

Wolfgang snorts. “It will be more than a decent fight. I read that he incapacitated an entire battalion of Russian soldiers back in the ‘60s.”

“Russians?” Nomi asks. “I thought you said he was Nazi hunter?”

“I’ve had quite a long life, my dear,” Erik says. The corners of his mouth lift slightly, quirking into something like a smile. “Nazis, Russians, Americans - I don't care what name they use, only that they seek to kill my people. It’s interesting, though, that you would know about my work.”

“There were old posters of him,” Wolfgang says, staring at Erik. “Wanted posters in files at a library in East Berlin. I was looking for information on weapons.”

Nomi takes a deep breath and stops talking, struggling to control the flow of Wolfgang’s words. Left inside their shared consciousness is the sentence he didn’t say _. This man is a weapon._

“Fascinating. However, there are approximately –“ Erik’s voice breaks off, eyes cast slightly upward. “20 armed men attempting to bypass your security measures downstairs. Excellent work, by the way – however, we should leave soon. Yes, Charles. Yes, I know. Stop fussing. “

His eyes refocus and he motions them forward. “Ladies?” Turning, he ascends the ramp, feet still hovering slightly above the flat gray metal.

Nomi's brows furrow as she turns to Amanita and asks, “Is this what it’s like for you?” 

“You mean the information pulled from thin air bit or the only hearing half the conversation bit?”

“Both,” Nomi says.

“Yes. Now go. I don’t want to have to find out just how good a fighter Mr. Light on His Feet really is.” Amanita’s hand trembles inside her grasp and Nomi squeezes again before heading into the plane.

The plane is much darker than the outside and Nomi stops at the top of the ramp, blinking. The man continues on ahead of them and she can hear switches clicking as the hatch closes behind them. Amanita pulls her on and Nomi follows, squinting into the darkness.

“Have a seat,” Erik calls back. “Trask has enough firepower to level this building though I doubt he’ll go that far. Still, it’s best you strap in.”

Sitting, Nomi reaches to pull the straps across her body. It’s a five-point harness that meets just under her ribcage, forming a wide X. As she clicks the latch, the sound of the engine reverberates through the plane and her stomach flips as they start to ascend.

“How long until we to get to…wherever?” Amanita shouts towards the front of the plane.

“Not long,” Erik answers, his own voice raised. “And we’re headed to our local headquarters.”

“And Will and Riley? We will meet them there?” Nomi asks, watching the two of them.

They are sitting in an identical-looking plane, all gray and black with jump seats and crash webbing. Will is half-asleep, his thoughts a jumble, and Riley’s eyes are wide. They both look glass fragile, swallowed up in the vast cavern of the plane.

“No,” Erik says. “Given that Trask is able to track Mr. Gorski, we thought it best to separate you physically until Charles can help him build up his mental defenses.”

“Besides,” he adds,” my understanding is that mere distance is no separation for all of you.”

“He’s right,” Wolfgang says. “Doesn’t matter how far away they are – if they need us.”

He doesn’t finish the sentence but she knows what comes next. Distance can’t keep them apart. In the space of a blink, she can see them all, feel them all, pressing in close around her.

In the warmth of her cluster, flying over San Francisco, with Amanita by her side, the ice in her belly melts. She hears Kala’s music playing somewhere in the background and Capheus laughs. She sits back in her seat, her back unbending after hours at the computer, and she closes her eyes.

“Hang on,” Erik says and her eyes fly open. “The autopilot isn’t always the smoothest landing.”

“Autopilot?” Amanita mouths, eyebrows flying high.

The plane dips right then left as it descends before a soft jolt signals their landing. Erik turns and smiles at them.

“Welcome to Alcatraz, ladies.”


	3. as we speak and see, together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _The woman’s hair matches the color of the light, a soft but vibrant purple. Her eyes are the bright green of the stones that grace Ganesha’s crown. She holds out her hand to Kala, face stark white against the play of purple light. “Come with me if you want to live.”_ A mutation is a mutation, no matter what the name others give it or how it manifests. A Sense8/X-Men crossover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to everyone who commented and left kudos. I am absolutely x1million grateful for all the encouragement. The title of this chapter taken from [Iconography](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poem/250646) by Alice Notely.

The machines stop humming.

Kala looks up from the papers splayed out in front of her. The soft noises of the lab fall away and her mouth fills with the taste of metal.  She stands, muscles tense, as the pit of her stomach drops.

 _Wolfgang_. Whatever is happening to him, he is terribly afraid. Twisting her head to look behind her, she sees only the lab.

Reaching a hand around to press at the tight muscles bunched at the base of her neck, Kala sighs. Closing her eyes, she draws in a deep breath, filling her lungs with the pure air of the lab. Whatever it is, it isn’t here.

She clenches her hands and releases them, stretching her fingers wide. Safe. She is safe.

There is a soft pop followed by an electric crackle. The lab desk shimmers with an incandescent purple light that slides and moves almost like a snake. Kala looks up and sees – a lab?

It looks like her lab. The same desks arranged in neat rows, the same tall black chairs, a dark-haired woman bent over a pile of papers. Is it her? Is she asleep, watching herself?

The light around the lab vibrates, sending out a wave of sound that flows over Kala and sets the ends of her hair dancing. Does that mean this is a dream? Or that it isn’t?

A woman appears in the center of the – picture? The woman’s hair matches the color of the light, a soft but vibrant purple. Her eyes are the bright green of the stones that grace Ganesha’s crown. And, as Kala watches in fascination, she _jumps through the purple light._

She holds out her hand to Kala, face stark white against the play of purple light. “Come with me if you want to live.”

Kala stares at her. “What?”

The woman smiles at her question. “I just really always wanted to say that. But seriously, we should go now. They’re coming for you.”

“How did you do that?” Kala asks, still looking between the woman and the mirror image of her lab. “Is it matter displacement or molecular transportation? Or – “

The door of the lab rattles. Someone is shaking the knob. The shaking and rattling becomes a dull thud. Kala watches as the door shudders under the force of the blow.

“Time to go?” she says to the woman behind her. “Yes, I think it is.”

The woman grabs her hand and Kala turns to face her. “Don’t worry. It won’t hurt. Just jump with me, okay?”

Kala nods and allows herself to be pulled along behind the woman. As the reach the portal, the woman cries “Jump!” and her legs obey. Before she even registers the change, she is sprawled on the floor in the mirror lab, looking up at the shimmering purple light.

The light collapses in on itself as Kala watches, blinking away as if it never existed.

 “I really want to know how that works," Kala says.

“Vacuum state quantum energy teleportation.”

“Amazing.” Kala scrambles to her feet and turns in the direction of the new voice.

“Agreed.” The voice belongs to a woman. Tall with dark hair and rectangular glasses, her accent is soft, almost slurred, more American than British. “Clarice’s abilities are scientifically astonishing. I imagine that if she were to consent to join a team of quantum physicists, their study of her powers would advance humanity’s understanding of – “

“No,” the other woman interrupts. “Not interested in being any kind of lab rat.”

“Perfectly understandable.” Her face softens. “I’m Dr. Rao and this is Clarice. Are you Dr. Dandekar?”

“Yes,” Kala answers. “Where - where are we?”

“This is my lab,” Dr. Rao says and her eyes cut away, a brief movement that Kala almost misses.

“She didn’t answer the question,” Sun says in Kala’s ear. 

“It is obviously a lab,” Kala replies, her voice twinned with Sun’s own.

 Sun is brave and her voice is strong. “But you have not answered my question. Where are we?”

“A long way from where you were, “ Dr. Rao answers. “Do you know why Clarice came for you?”

“The man,” Sun answers for them both. “The one who sees, who knows.  Jonas called him Whispers.”

“Yes.” Dr. Rao nods. “You know he has other names.”

This is not a question.

“Trask,” Kala says. “The man – the professor? He said his name was Trask.”

“That’s correct,” Dr. Rao says, motioning Kala towards her workspace. “We believe he is attempting to augment his father’s weapon designs with genetics. More than simply detecting the X gene, they would be able to mimic specific mutant’s abilities – such as your own form of telepathy.”

“This is not new information,” Sun rejoins and her voice, softer than Kala’s own, is iron hard. “And you still have not answered the question.”

“She doesn’t need to,” Kala tells Sun. “I know where we are.”

She looks down at Will’s hand entwined with hers. He is stretched out on a narrow metal platform, his eyes closed and his face slack. A red haired woman stands opposite her, a clipboard in hand.

“We were hoping,” Dr. Rao says, pulling her focus away from her cluster, “that you might be willing to work with us. Your degree is in pharmaceutical biotechnology, correct?”

Kala nods. “They are well-informed,” Sun tells her. “Too well-informed.”

“My work is primarily aimed at understanding how the Mutant X gene operates in each mutant. There are many mutants who would prefer to decrease the impact of their mutation on their daily lives.”

“Or increase their abilities,” Clarice says. “Not everyone thinks their mutation is a disease.”

The corners of Kala’s mouth curl upward. The words themselves are not heated but Clarice’s voice is strong, sharp, as electric as the energy she creates with her hands. Kala watches Dr. Rao and sees the brief crease of her forehead.

“Tell me more,” Kala says. “Tell me more and I will make my decision.”

But even as Dr. Rao begins to talk, Kala knows her decision is already made. Riley is here. Will is here.

She will not abandon them.

 

 

 


	4. of sudden motion in the mostly still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“You think I am meant to be the hero of this story?” Wolfgang asks, turning to look at Lito. “What if I the villain?”_ A mutation is a mutation, no matter what the name others give it or how it manifests. A Sense8/X-Men crossover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to all of you who have commented or left kudos. I promise there is great noises of squealey delight whenever I find out someone else has read and liked the thing I wrote. A tip of the hat to George R.R. Martin and [Alden Jones](http://millionsmillions.tumblr.com/post/124027391581/i-think-we-understand-our-own-life-experiences-in) for giving me just the right words for Lito to say. 
> 
> The title of this chapter comes from the poem [Exiting the Night](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/250172) by **D.R. Goodman**.

The area in front of the prison is flat and exposed. The sun beats down in heavy hot rays. Wolfgang squints up at the blocky sand brown buildings and the surrounding razor wire fence.

“Don’t go inside.”

“Why not?” Nomi’s voice doesn’t waver but her face is pinched with the same anxiety that flutters through his veins.

He turns to look at her, eyebrows raised. “He is a killer. This is a prison.” He does not finish the thought. He Nomi hears what he does not say.

She doe not respond but her eyes follow his gaze up the line of the buildings.  The metal is covered with rust, twisted into fantastical shapes – points and crosses, interweaved to look like armor. _Erik fucking Lensherr,_ he thinks _, is not a savior_.

“He saved us from BPO,” Nomi says. “That’s not nothing.”

“The kindness of strangers.” Amanita speaks with a whisper that echoes in his head.

Wolfgang closes his eyes. There is danger here. This man, this place, something – he hears a scream and his eyes fly open.

“Kala.” He turns to Nomi. “Can you see Kala?”

She shakes her head. “Go.”

“I can’t.” Wolfgang concentrates on the feeling of fear and tries to follow it back to its source. “I can feel her but I can’t see her!”

The heavy tread of boots against metal resonates in the near-empty courtyard. Erik descends the ramp of the plane on foot. A courtesy?  A warning?

_You’re never alone_ , his father would remind him as the blows fell like rain on his small body. _There’s nothing you do I don’t know._

“Is he with you now, your German friend?” Erik asks.

 He doesn’t wait for her to answer. “He is in danger. Trask has a team very close to him. He must hurry.”

············

The warmth of San Francisco fades and Wolfgang is in an alley under the gunmetal gray sky of Berlin. With skill born of years of desperation, he slows his breathing and walks away. He strains his ears to hear the almost silent shuffle of armed men behind him.

He doesn’t look back. He doesn’t walk faster. The first rule of escape, learned from years of living with his father, is never run.

He doesn’t break stride when the man just appears at his side.

“Keep walking,” the man says.

Wolfgang braces himself for a blow, but it never falls. He risks a sidelong glance and sees a black leather clad shoulder. The man is much taller, though he matches Wolfgang step for step.

As they turn in unison down another side street, Wolfgang sees a massed group of people clustered in a tight formation. Some of them wear black tactical gear and heavy weaponry. Behind them are others wearing the same bulky haz-mat suits he remembers from the visions of Angelica.

His steps falter and his muscles tense. Even as his steps slow, Wolfgang tucks his arm around his waist, searching for the gun he now carries with him always.  The man’s hand follows his, tugging his hand away from the weapon

“Keep walking,” the man repeats.

Hand inches away from the gun, Wolfgang stops walking as weapons fall from now slack hands and bodies crumple to the hard ground. There is no noise, no one screams. They just fall.

“You’re thinking of ways to stop me. You’re wondering how long it will take you to incapacitate me and flee.” the man says, his voice even and quiet.  “I’ve been watching you for three days. Three days of close surveillance that you didn’t even notice. You’re outgunned, dude, in an almost literal way – almost.”

Wolfgang tilts his head, looking the man up and down. He is taller by almost a quarter meter but he stands lightly on his feet, limbs loose and ready to fight. But size doesn’t give a true picture of an opponent. Wolfgang has brought men just as big and just as strong.

The man’s eyes tell him the truth. A cold brown and narrow, his eyes are set deep in an angular face. Wolfgang knows those eyes. He sees them in the mirror every day in shades of cold blue.

His eyes convince Wolfgang as much as the downed bodies sprawled across the alley. He can do this to anyone. More, he is willing to do it to Wolfgang.

But Wolfgang isn’t willing to just give up.

“In every story,” Lito says, “there is a hero and a villain. The hero waits to make his move. The villain never does.”

Wolfgang breathes deeply. “Life is not a story, Lito.”

“Life is only ever a story,” Lito says, placing a warm hand on his shoulder. “All the things that happen to us or that we do to others, the things that makes us happy or sad, all of this makes us who we are and what is that, my friend, but a story? We can only do our best to make our story a good one.”

“And now,” Lito continues, “your story requires that you wait.”

“You think I am meant to be the hero of this story?” Wolfgang asks, turning to look at Lito. “What if I the villain?”

“Nobody is the villain in their own story, Wolfgang.”

The man begins to walk and Wolfgang walks after him.

“Are you with that Professor?” Wolfgang asks, breaking the silence.

The man grimaces, his mouth twisting in a dark frown. “What makes you say that?”

“Your shirt.” Wolfgang points. “The red X – isn’t that the Professor’s name?”

“Let’s go.” The man walks faster, long strides putting distance between them. “We have a deadline to meet.”

············

As they walk, shadows creep out across the city. The sidewalks grow crowded as commuters on their way home run headlong into tourists on their way out for the evening. The sounds of music, the smells of food, the press of traffic, and the flow of bodies push them forward.

The noise and the life of the city fall away. Walking through winding streets, whole neighborhoods vanish behind them. The shadows grow longer, surrounding them and swallowing them whole.

As they approach the edge of the abandoned airfield, a voice calls out “You’re late.”

“I have five minutes,” the man at his side rejoins, a small smile curving the corner of his lips.

Wolfgang watches as another man slides from the concealment of the thick foliage surrounding the runway. “If you wanna call that on time...”

“Thought we had a mission? But I mean, I guess if you think standing around talking is the best way to get things done, who am I to argue?” The man,  thick arms crossed over his chest, tilts his head as he looks at the new arrival.

“I could never hope to outtalk you,” comes the reply from the behind them. “Now get on the damn plane.”

“Plane?” Wolfgang finally speaks.

The tall man nods and jerks a thumb behind them. “Better hurry up. Jimmy’s all mouth but he’s not wrong – we’re still on the clock.”

Wolfgang watches as the man strides up the gangway. The black plane, with its wings curved out across the runway, reminds him of a long ago school trip to the zoo and the birds of prey that swooped across the aviary. It is almost, but not quite, the same plane that rescued Nomi and Amanita.

He follows the man up the gangway and into the dark of the plane.

“Object retrieved,” the man shouts toward the cockpit. “Trask’s forces subdued.”

The pilot’s seat swivels. The pilot, a man with short hair the color of sand, wears glasses with thick red lenses. “Temporarily, I hope.”

The lookout snickers as he slides past Wolfgang to sit in the co-pilot’s seat. “Nothing you like more than a quiet op, right?”

“Temporarily?” The pilot repeats, face blank.

The man scowls. “Yes.”

“Good.” The pilot turns to face the instrument panel, hands flying over the brightly lit controls. “It’s not standard protocol but the Professor was very insistent.”

“And you don’t like to upset Daddy,” the man shoots back.

The aircraft pitches backward as it lifts straight up and off the runaway, sending Wolfgang and the man to the deck in a tangle of arms and legs.

“Strap in,” the pilot calls back as they try to right themselves. “We’ve got two hours until our scheduled rendezvous and Storm hates it when we’re late.”

 

 

 


End file.
